


Obscure Sorrows

by CaptainOzone



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Angst, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Drabble Collection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOzone/pseuds/CaptainOzone
Summary: A Bat-Fam drabble collection inspired by prompts from John Koenig's "The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows."1. Jason is told Batman has a new Robin.2. Bruce's frequent absences make Dick question his place in his new family.3. Jim Gordon considers Bruce Wayne's new status as guardian to an orphaned Dick Grayson.4. Ric Grayson hasn't recognized anyone from before his head injury. Not until now.5. A partially retired Bruce Wayne waits on his youngest son.





	1. Nodus Tollens

**Author's Note:**

> Over on StoryScribes, an online community for writers and fans of the fantasy genre, the webmistress Heatherlly has started weekly drabble prompts based on John Koenig's Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows (https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com). Each drabble is 100-400 words, and none of them are connected, though most of them will fit into canon, in some form or fashion. Definitions of each word are in each chapter's notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is told Batman has a new Robin. Set during Red Hood: Lost Days #4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nodus Tollens: "the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure."

When Jason first sits down with Talia that night, he doesn’t expect to be teased.

In his defense, it really isn’t his fault that all of the teachers she’d found for him were utter pieces of shit. One, a pedophile. Another, a human trafficker. And yet another, a murderer. Of course there’s a pattern: he’d learn from them, he'd discover their vices, and then he’d put them down. Permanently. What else could he do? Let the fuckers live? Leave their victims unavenged?

(Never again).

So, no, he doesn’t appreciate the implied comparison to Bruce, thanks. Nor does he appreciate the throwback to who he used to be _to _Bruce.

That isn’t who he is anymore.

(He’s better).

Perhaps the teasing is meant to prepare him. Maybe it’s to soften him. But when he first sits down with Talia that night, he has no reason to suspect.

And then she pulls out the manila envelope. He takes it from her without hesitation. Even before she finishes explaining, before she so much as mentions the name _Gotham_, Jason has removed the contents, and her words become a rush of white noise in his ears.

Before him is a ghost, all bright smiles and brighter colors, flitting like a bird in the shadows.

He recognizes the smile, the colors. He recognizes the form, the place. Because he’d been there. He’d smiled that smile and had worn those colors. He’d flown with those wings.

But this isn’t him. This is a stranger. An imposter.

Jason raises his gaze. “Who...who is he?”

“His name is Timothy Drake,” Talia says. “Robin.”

_Robin_. Jason stares back down at the boy wearing his suit, carrying his name, fighting alongside his—

“You alright?” Talia asks.

“Sure,” Jason says, and his voice sounds sluggish, fuzzy, as though he’s trying to speak underwater. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

_This isn’t who I am anymore_.

Somehow, he finds his way back to his motel room. He doesn’t remember changing or pinning the pictures on his wall, across from his bed. He doesn’t remember how long he sits and stares at the boy he once was, trying to feel anything but hollow and broken.

At some point, Jason rises. Crosses the room. Presses a hand against the wall, pictures splayed under his palm. He bows his head, shoulders quaking, eyes burning.

Robin smiles back at him, frozen in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Red Hood: Lost Days #4. Some dialogue has been taken or otherwise paraphrased from the comic itself.


	2. Apomakrysmenophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's frequent absences make Dick question his place in his new family. Set post-Grayson family death/pre-Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apomakrysmenophobia: "fear that your connections with people are ultimately shallow, that although your relationships feel congenial at the time, an audit of your life would produce an emotional safety deposit box of low-interest holdings and uninvested windfall profits, which will indicate you were never really at risk of joy, sacrifice or loss."

“I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

Alfred wiped sudsy hands on a nearby dishtowel and turned to find the boy staring blankly down at his breakfast, which, to Alfred’s dismay, had been picked at rather than enjoyed.

It had been a week since Master Bruce brought the child home. His appetite had been a fleeting thing, as was to be expected, but up until that morning, despite his circumstances, Master Dick had put on a brave face. Even in mourning, he had a way of bringing a natural sunshine into even the dreariest of days, and it had been remarkable, to see the changes this boy’s light had wrought in Master Bruce.

And what Master Bruce’s kindness, and empathy, had done for the boy in turn.

The child raised his gaze from his cold plate. Dark rings encircled numb eyes. His usual smile was absent; his complexion, grey. “Does he even care?”

_Oh, Bruce, _Alfred wondered, aching deep in his chest, _what have you done?_

“Of course he does, Master Dick,” Alfred said gently. Bruce cared so much he had not slept since the funeral, for finding the Graysons’ killer was of an importance too great for words. The child could not, and would not, know this. “But—”

The boy’s crystalline eyes flashed. “Don’t lie for him.”

“—Master Bruce is a busy man,” Alfred finished, despising himself for what he was leaving unsaid. This was not the first time Bruce's secret had caused undue strife. Nor would it be the last. Never had being a guardian of said secret been so difficult as it was now. “That is no lie.”

“I know he hasn’t been here.”

“Business keeps Master Bruce away from home often.”

"Yeah, okay." Lips twisting, Master Dick poked viciously at his eggs. “I told him I didn’t want another dad.” A light flush dusted his cheeks, belying his deadened tone. “But after...after everything, I had thought...”

His fork dropped with a clatter, and there was a screech of stool legs against tile. It was only after Master Dick raced out of the kitchen that Alfred cursed Batman under his breath, pulled out his cell phone, and sent Master Bruce a text message that brokered no argument:

_Fix this. _


	3. Gnossienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Gordon considers Bruce Wayne's new status as guardian to an orphaned Dick Grayson and accidentally comes to a revelation. Identity Reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gnossienne: "a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand."

Jim’s first reaction was, in all honesty, not very favorable.

Bruce Wayne was a lot of things—generous when it counted; empathetic when it mattered; shrewd when it benefited him. He was a showman and playboy, and also a bit of a dichotomy, his philanthropic work and keen business sense almost always outshined by gossip of his drunken, dangerous, or otherwise obnoxious escapades.

So, yes, Bruce was a lot of things.

But a responsible caretaker?

Jim stared down at the newspaper, headline claiming ORPHANED CIRCUS PERFORMER BECOMES WAYNE WARD, and wondered, with a fair amount of incredulity, _what the hell? _

He ditched the paper with a frown, unable to look at Richard Grayson’s haunted expression any longer. He wasn’t sure how this would end, but he hoped, for the kid’s sake, it would last.

Weeks later, Jim watched from an isolated corner as a smiling Richard orbited around Bruce, and how Bruce, in turn, moved around Richard. They were in tune, flitting in and out of each other’s space, always checking up on the other, never too far from the other’s side.

Jim watched, mesmerized, and he was reminded of another child, who, years before, had stood alone cold alleyway, pale face illuminated by flashing red and blue lights, his sleeves crusted with his parents’ blood.

He'd been a new officer then, fresh on the scene, and it had been his first homicide in Gotham.

He’d also offered that shivering kid his coat that night. It had swallowed him whole.

The image superimposed over Dick Grayson, and in that moment, Jim thought that, maybe, he finally understood.

But then piercing blue eyes met Jim’s from across the room. With an upward twitch of his lips, Bruce inclined his head.

It was an acknowledgement, speaking of things that usually went unsaid, as well as a gesture of mutual respect, eerily familiar and something Jim was used to receiving from his colleagues, both at the GCPD and—

Jim felt as though he’d been doused in ice water.

Bruce’s little bird tugged on his sleeve, and Jim was released from the pressure of his revelation the moment Bruce redirected his attention.

By the time Jim left the benefit that night, a mantra of _plausible deniability _forcing him to put every last one of his detective’s instincts on hold, one thing was absolutely clear.

He wasn’t sure he understood a damn thing anymore.


	4. Lethobenthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ric Grayson hasn't recognized anyone from before his head injury. Not until now. Set during current Nightwing: Rebirth canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethobenthos: "The habit of forgetting how important someone is to you until you see them again in person, making you wish your day would begin with a “previously on” recap of your life’s various plot arcs, and end with “to be continued…”"
> 
> Side note: I still laugh because I'm convinced Ric without a K is the sluttiest nickname for "Richard" I've ever seen (and that means a lot, considering, you know, DICK, lol). 
> 
> Also, I'm calling DC out for being COWARDS. They have yet to really show how Damian initially reacted to Dick's injury. They probably won't. That's why I will probably come back and rewrite this into a much longer oneshot.

Ric takes a long sip of his strawberry milkshake, trying to keep his eyes off his watch. Bea’s running late.

The diner is empty. It is his first time here, though he’d been the one to recommend it. When Bea asked him how he’d known of the place, he said he must have heard of it from someone at the bar, or from the back of his cab.

(He didn’t).

Not that it matters. He’s far from disappointed. The milkshake is killer, even if some small part of him, for whatever reason, aches whenever he drinks it.

Perhaps he’ll try the chocolate next time. He wonders why he didn’t order it in the first place. Chocolate is his vice.

The door chimes sing, and Ric peers over the top of the booth. A pang of disappointment carves at him when he sees it isn’t Bea—just two kids.

Before Ric can turn around, one of the boys meets his eyes, and that little ache in his chest widens into a gaping, oozing chasm with no bottom in sight.

He...knows this kid. He recognizes him.

He hasn’t recognized anyone like this. Not since his head injury.

“Damian?” the kid’s friend asks, and Ric’s heart rises in his throat, beating to a rhythm he can’t define and yet still _understands_.

“Never mind, Kent,” the boy mutters. His face is shadowed and pale, a forced blankness sweeping aside his initial surprise. He flings the door back open. “Let’s go.”

Ric feels as though he’s been slapped, as though he’s being swallowed whole, and it isn’t until they are gone that he rockets to his feet, calling a belated, “Wait!”

Bea catches the door. She looks over her shoulder at the disappearing boys and then cocks an eyebrow at Ric. “You know them?” she asks.

“I...” Ric trails off, shaken by the desire to run after them. To bring them back.

_Why you? _ he wants to ask. _Why now?_

“Ric?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he decides, tearing his attention away from the boy. His smile is a lie. “Here, let me take your coat.”

When he sits back down, Bea slides across from him, apologizing for her lateness. He apologizes for ordering ahead of time. She laughs and teases him, but as he takes another sip of his shake, his mind is elsewhere.

Maybe it isn’t the strawberry or chocolate alone he craves.


	5. Anchorage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A partially retired Bruce Wayne waits on his youngest son. Future fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anchorage: "the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it’s okay—let go.”"

Bruce scans through several open case files. Crime scene photos, GCPD reports, and graphs of collected data blur before his eyes. His discarded cheaters lie next to his mug of coffee. He hardly ever wears them in the Cave.

From behind him, the empty cowl stares holes into his back. The pressure of its gaze makes his fingers itch, his legs jostle. The city, too, calls to him. It always will. Its siren song has long since been interwoven into his very being.

“Father.”

Bruce turns. Damian at twenty is tall and broad, not quite built like the tank Jason is or the lean athlete Dick is, but rather like Bruce had been, when he was that age.

It was only yesterday that Bruce met an angry little boy who held a blade to his throat, looked up at him with appraising eyes, and said, _I imagined you taller_. Now, his youngest son stands as a proud statue, long cape draped over his shoulders, gauntlets gleaming gunmetal black. His cowl is pulled back, jaw clenching. He waits, jade eyes sharp as glass.

Bruce stands from his chair, hiding a wince as one of his knees twinges. “Are you ready?” he asks his son.

_He looks ready_.

Damian nods, stiff and formal. “Always.”

“Nightwing is out tonight. As is Batgirl,” Bruce feels the need to remind him. “Call if you need them.”

“Tt.” Damian rolls his eyes, his serious expression dissolving into a scowl, and that familiar action, more than anything, cracks some of the unspoken tension in the room. “So you’ve said, Father.”

Bruce’s lips twitch into a smile, and after a moment, Damian reads it for what it is and, slowly, returns it. The young man inclines his head and pulls his cowl on as he goes. His gait changes as he does, the persona of Batman fitting him in a way Robin never did.

Bruce faces his old cowl, and he watches Batman enter the Batmobile through the reflection in the glass. His gut wrenches and flips as the car’s engine roars to life.

“It is always hard, isn’t it, my boy?”

Sighing wryly, Bruce doesn’t respond and asks instead, “How long have you been here?”

Alfred hums and shuffles to stand beside Bruce before the first Batman's suit, his cane scraping lightly against stone. “Long enough.”

The old man’s stiff fingers rest on Bruce’s forearm.


End file.
